“How’d you like to join our weight loss competition?” my chiropractor asked me, even though I was wearing one of my most slimming outfits. I politely declined—the last thing I need in addition to a spine that needs weekly ironing is to enter a weight loss competition with other patients.
When I stepped out into my backyard the other morning, I had a rude shock: a man was digging a trench that cut a diagonal swath from one side of the house all the way across the yard to my office, formerly known as the garage. True, I had hired a handyman, Paul, to “fix a few things” around the house, but this digging business was a real head-scratcher.
Ken, relieved to finally be back on home turf.
They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but our dog, Ken, has proven the old saw wrong. At a seasoned 12 years old, Ken achieved the unprecedented feat of staying in a kennel without having a nervous breakdown.
The news hit me as painfully as the stiletto heel that accidentally ground into my foot when I danced the hora at a wedding last week: Our favorite shoe emporium, roughly the size of the Pentagon, had closed, another fatality in “real live” shopping opportunities. I ran to break the news to my teenaged daughter. We stopped to bow our heads in a moment of silence. My batch of 10-dollar off coupons for the store were now just forlorn bits of paper, suitable only for recycling.
I’m a mild-mannered, conservatively dressed female, only 5’ 3” tall. I don’t sport body piercings or carry a weapon. Still, some people consider me a menace.
I feel sorry for anyone who has to fly a lot these days. Flying on airplanes used to be exciting adventures, but that was before you had to get X-rayed, frisked and yelled out by TSA agents, who are often as stupid as they are tyrannical. And it’s hard to feel excited about flying when airlines are so flinty that they charge us for taking on our own luggage, for goodness’ sake, not to mention food, headphones, and seats with more than eight inches of leg room. It won’t be long before they’ll charge for breathing oxygen in the cabin.
I’m lying on a mat at the gym, bored out of my mind but still keeping up with an endless loop of ab crunches. Joey, the perky new instructor, has us doing this at warp speed. You know, just to get the heart rate up. I keep stealing glances at the clock – has it only been eight minutes? Oral surgery seemed to go faster than this.
Lately I’ve run across a slew of articles suggesting ways we can all get smarter. One article loaded with 31 suchtips pledged not only to make us smarter, but to do it fast. Perhaps someone figured out that our plummeting attention spans, shrinking vocabularies and eagerness to be featured on reality TV shows is becoming a national security risk.
My kids have a bizarre notion that barbeques are the easiest way to fix dinner this side of a take-out menu. This is because their main contributions to barbeques have been eating twice as much meat as normal, urgently spraying ketchup as if they’re putting out a fire, and chugging sodas. My husband mans the grill (“persons the grill” just doesn’t sound right, does it?), and suits up for the job by donning his Official Barbeque Shirt, festooned with a blinding pattern of beers and burgers. This forces me to wear my biggest, darkest sunglasses for at least three hours.
(My dog, Ken, “at work.”)
Back in the days when gas was cheap and tattoos were for tough biker types, dogs slept in dog beds on the floor, waited for someone to remember to toss them a bone now and then, and had names such as Fido or Pizza.Since then, things have swung wildly in the dogs’ direction. Today’s tail-waggers are named Zelda, Brian, or Charlene, and they have been upgraded to sleeping in their owners’ beds. Some go to therapy to help them with their “issues,” which may include being named Zelda, Brian or Charlene and having to wear miniature Burberry trench coats and Prada sunglasses. In fact, dogs no longer have owners – they have “human companions.”